


extra pineapple

by barebones



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, M/M, Mention of Animal Death, gratuitous fluff, it's new year's so there's drinking, nothing crazier than canon though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22181170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barebones/pseuds/barebones
Summary: “I’m just doin’ what I can to keep the lights on while Sam finishes pre-law,” Dean explains as he pays the Gas-n-Sip clerk the amount due for three six-packs and some black licorice. While the receipt prints, he eyes some perfectly gaudy Christmas wreath made up of crushed beer cans, and he’s tempted to buy it if only for the look of unadulterated horror it’d earn him from Sam. “I get discount pizza outta the deal, and hey, the tips aren’t too shabby.” He casts a meaningful glance Cas’s way.Cas smiles something shy. “I see.”
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43





	extra pineapple

**Author's Note:**

> hi. so i'm about a week late posting this. two seasonal jobs (turned permanent) had left me with little time.
> 
> this ficlet comes from personal experience (losing a childhood pet on new year's), some ancient tumblr prompt, and the brain-child of my dear friend elena and me.
> 
> merry belated christmas, ya filthy animals.

Instead of hello, Sam asks, glass bottles clinking together in the background, “Mind grabbing six-packs on the way home?”

“Sure thing,” Dean answers into the direction of his phone that slides down, what with gravity being a thing and all, right into the passenger footwell. “Shit.”

“Uh, Dean?”

“Just a sec. Shit, fuck—” That yellow light sprung to red way too fast, sparing no one—not Dean or his phone or the pizzas he’s got stacked beside him on the bench. A well-timed arm thrown in front of them saves the hot pies from being lost to the floorboard, but he won’t be able to fish his phone out from the depths until he’s reached the next house.

What Dean wagers as Sam’s rummaging through their fridge stops, the door closing, and an amused huff crackles through the line. “Drop me again?”

“Like a hot potato.” Dean winches like his kid brother actually felt the tumble. “Sorry.”

“I’m used to it.”

“Anything else we need?”

“Uhh—” Dean can practically hear the checklist being ticked off inside Sam’s head. “Pretty sure we’ve got everything else short of fireworks.”

“Awesome.”

Yeah, fireworks set off in the parking lot of their tiny two-bedroom apartment would send management and their neighbors into conniptions. Doesn’t make Dean any less disappointed, though, as they used to be tradition in the Winchester household when Mom and Dad were around and they had a big enough backyard to accommodate them.

“Jo and Ash are here already,” Sam goes on to say, and as if on cue, Dean hears their raucous whooping like frat boys in the background, beguiling the most candid of grins from him. “Jess, too.”

“So that’s where all our beer went.”

Sam chuckles. “You aren’t wrong.”

“Midnight ain’t for another three hours.” Dean’s pulling into a driveway that belongs to the only house on the lane without a single strand of Christmas lights blinking back at him. “Tell ‘em to slow their roll.”

“Until you get here, you mean,” Sam says, all-knowing.

“It ain’t a party otherwise, Sammy.” Dean smirks. “I’m on my last run. Let me know soon if anything else comes to that freakishly large melon of yours.”

Sam deadpans a _ha-ha_ before he quips, “See you soon, jerk,” and then hangs up.

Dean replies, “Bitch,” even if Sam can’t hear it, snatching up the pizza—large Hawaiian with extra pineapple, a travesty to sensible taste buds everywhere—and then strolling up to the front door. Very narrowly he dodges a head-on collision with the terracotta of some dying plant that dangles untouched by the porchlight’s glow, and so with more vehemence than necessary, Dean rings the doorbell. He waits.

Cas—bedhead galore and sporting more than a five o’clock shadow—in an emoji T-shirt answers it. Dark circles weigh down his bloodshot blue eyes that narrow at Dean as he says, “Yes?”

Dean holds up the pizza and goes with, “It’s delivery, not DiGiorno?”

This donner of freakin’ emoticons, from the eye-rolling one to the smiling angel, must remember, then, shaking his hanging head. Who forgets about the food they ordered after only forty some-odd minutes of ordering it? Cas has always been a little odd—stares a lot, talks like a walking thesaurus—but not _this_ odd.

“Oh,” is all he says. “Yes, that’s right.”

Dean tries to rein his eyebrows in somewhere below his hairline. “Unless you ordered Chinese, that’ll be twenty-two fifty-eight.”

“Mm.” Cas consults the pockets of his flannel pajamas but comes up empty. “One moment.”

Dean blinks. “Uh, okay.”

Cas vanishes from the doorway, permitting Dean, for the first time since Cas became part of Dean’s route some months ago, an open view into the abode. In the living room stand a carpeted cat tower and shelves of tomes and a modest, wall-mounted flat screen that has what appears to be season one of _Orange is the New Black_ paused on its screen. No one seems to occupy the sofa, whose cushions Cas has taken to upturning in his search for what could only be his wallet, nor do they any other piece of furniture, and so Dean wonders, then, if the pizza is meant for a New Year’s party of one.

Another minute passes before a victorious Cas returns with two twenties and insists, “Keep it,” just as Dean goes to make change. His eyes don’t meet Dean’s above the greasy box that’s been transferred to him. “Happy New Year to you, Dean.”

A near twenty-dollar tip is… way generous. And maybe because the guy’s Netflix-and-chilling all by his lonesome on what should be a celebratory night paired with Christmas and all the other effervescent holidays of the season, guilt has Dean dithering to accept. Licking his lips, he says, “Thanks, man,” and then, “You sure?”

“Positive.”

With nothing left to do, Dean pockets the kind token, retracts a step, and cracks a smile. “Cool,” he says, and then tacks on to match Castiel’s, “Happy New Year’s to you and yours, pal.”

That captures Castiel’s attention, blue eyes fastening onto Dean’s green as his head cants to the side. “Mine?”

Dean pauses again, mouth opening and closing like a broken garage door. “I, uh—saw the cat… tower?”

Castiel’s face falls, a mirror image of the sad emoji that’s stretched, more of an ellipsis than a circle, somewhere in the third row across his torso. Guy must work out or something—not that Dean could ever tell before under those ill-fitting suits of his. “Thank you, but as of yesterday, it’s just me.”

Oh, shit.

“I’m… sorry?” Fuck, Dean didn’t mean for that to sound like a question. He’s never kept a pet, but ages ago, Sam loved a golden retriever named Bones. When Bones died, Sam barely slept or ate for a week. Dude still gets choked up about it. “What I mean to say is… that’s rough.”

“It wasn’t entirely unexpected; Hannah had been dealing with diabetes for a while.”

Ignoring the very human name, Dean instead opts for the equally shocked but less offensive response: “Cats can get _diabetes_?”

Castiel nods, grave, down at a grease spot on the cardboard. The blue of his eyes has become clouded in what could only be distant—or in this case, not so—recollection. “Indeed they can.”

“Huh.”

Awkwardness descends, then, as Dean hovers on the porch steps, waiting for Castiel to spare him from further enlightenment into the life and times of Hannah the cat. Not that he’s unsympathetic, but Dean can barely handle his own problems, let alone the grief of a relative stranger whose ideal pizza topping should be illegal.

Despite everything, though, it’s how Castiel’s lips shape into a small, sorrowful smile as he says in finality, tugging more than ever on Dean’s heartstrings, “Well, be safe out there,” that leads to Dean’s most ambitious idea ever conceived next to that time with his buddy Leo and the triplets.

“Wait,” he says, and that stops the door from completely closing, Castiel peeking around it in confusion. “You, uh… like parties?”

Because no one should be alone on Christmas… or close to it.

* * *

The offer, much to Dean’s astonishment, is well-received. Maybe it’s the premise of free booze that’s won Cas over, but Dean hasn’t had the opportunity to ask, not when Cas hasn’t given up his turn in their game of Twenty Questions.

“I’m just doin’ what I can to keep the lights on while Sam finishes pre-law,” Dean explains as he pays the Gas-n-Sip clerk the amount due for three six-packs and some black licorice. While the receipt prints, he eyes some perfectly gaudy Christmas wreath made up of crushed beer cans, and he’s tempted to buy it if only for the look of unadulterated horror it’d earn him from Sam. “I get discount pizza outta the deal, and hey, the tips aren’t too shabby.” He casts a meaningful glance Cas’s way.

Cas smiles something shy. “I see.”

A handful of minutes later, the pair of them returned to the pleasant warmth of the Impala and halfway to Dean and Sam’s apartment, Cas proffers, “I’m a web developer.”

That makes perfect sense to Dean, who remembers the rows of novels of what must have been computer lingo in Cas’s house. He grins knowingly. “That why you got that shirt?”

Cas appraises his own chest. Eyebrows elevated, he deadpans, “I happen to like emoticons.”

“You mean to say that ain’t your uniform?” He steals a sideways glance, and it's to see that Cas is squinting back at him, trying to discern, no doubt, Dean’s sense of humor. 

“Believe it or not, Dean—” In the last hour, Cas has said Dean’s name exactly half a dozen times, each in a way that has had Dean’s stomach doing weird somersaults. “—I wear collared shirts to work.”

Dean swallows, feeling much too warm too suddenly, so off goes the heat. “Wait, seriously? Actual business attire is required of you gaggle of Zuckerbergs?”

Those blue eyes roll heavenward.

“No flip-flops?”

“No flip-flops.”

For the second time that evening, Dean just says, “Huh.”

* * *

Cas gets the honor of carrying the insulated pizzas while Dean fiddles with his keys. Turns out he doesn’t need them, though, as Sam must’ve heard the rumble of the Impala’s approach and so opens the front door before Dean can undo the lock himself.

“Hey!” At once Sam stops short, eyebrows flying up at Cas standing behind Dean. “Uh—”

Before it can get any more awkward, Dean licks his lips, steps in with, “This is Cas.” He gestures to the cardboard tower that Cas peeks around. “He’ll be ringin’ in the New Year with us.”

Much to Dean’s relief, Sam doesn’t question it; instead, the smile he gives is all affable, like greeting an old friend, and he says, “Good to have you, man.”

“Thank you. We come bearing pizza.” Cas indicates, not unlike Dean did earlier, to the boxes—his own plus another two, pepperoni and cheese, that Dean had put aside for the party. Everything about him is soft, from his unruly hair to his old trench coat, and something dangerously close to fondness blooms in Dean’s chest. “And beer.”

“Did someone say pizza?” Ash’s voice floats out to them from somewhere in the depths of the living room, from where the distinguishable soundtrack of Mario Kart—of drifting wheels, coins being collected—also issues.

“And beer?” follows Jo’s, hopeful. Then she cackles at what must only be a deftly-thrown blue shell, if Ash’s ensuing wail of protest is any indicator.

Guiding Cas past Sam into the apartment, Dean announces, “Paws off, heathens,” and if his hand free of groceries finds its way onto Cas’s shoulder, it’s only because Cas is struggling to see past the tower of boxes. “I call dibs.”

* * *

“I think this is the first time I’ve ever had beer on New Year’s Eve,” Cas remarks, draining the neck of his second bottle.

“Yeah?” Dean’s been having trouble keeping his eyes off the muscle that delineates Cas’s neck every time he takes a swig. “How the hell’s that?”

More than the alcohol, Cas has imbibed an easy confidence. It overflows into his crooked smile that has, as the night’s stretched on, become solely directed at Dean.

“Usually, I drink champagne,” he says.

It’s been at least an hour since he’s shed his coat, and if anything it’s only gotten chillier outside up here on the balcony, but Cas seems perfectly content to be without it. Meanwhile, Dean, wearing his supple leather coat, reclines farther back into the opposite fold-up chair and nurses a third beer of his own.

“Oh,” is Dean's answer, startled by the intensity of Cas’s gaze and tumbling out of him in a fog. His knee jiggles beneath the bottle whose label was peeled back some twenty minutes ago.

To be fair, up until now he’s been quite the conversationalist, he and Cas having swapped amusing anecdotes about their jobs while indulging in their respective pizzas. Dean told tale about the weirdest orders they’ve gotten at Rest in Pizza—of course, mentioning pineapple in jest, which garnered a worthwhile squint from Cas—before Cas regaled him with some office prank gone awry, something about maggots finding their way into someone’s burger at lunch, which, okay, trumps pineapple on cheese and red sauce, Dean admits.

This time without surrendering to sadness, Cas even touched on the Hannah topic; in fact, he laughed, rumbly and tender, during his story of how she would tap his shoulder with her paw whenever he’d be typing away and, yeah, that sounded pretty cute, Dean smiling along with him.

“Two minutes to midnight, guys,” Sam is suddenly relaying, poking his shaggy head out through the cracked door, the live countdown at Time’s Square a tinny backdrop. “You comin’ in?”

Dean consults his phone, and sure enough, the display illuminates 11:58 PM back at him. “Yeah, be there in a minute,” he says. Literally.

“I’m quite comfortable out here,” Cas comments just as Sam excuses himself, no doubt, to return to Jess’s side. Midnight kiss and all.

“Aren’t you?” Under the pretense of standing to stretch, Dean sends a private smile Cas’s way. He answers, “Yeah,” and then leans against the railing, pocketing his phone. His fingers are numb with cold, he tells himself, and not with nerves. “I’m good.”

Cas follows suit in rising to his feet, beer forgotten along with Dean’s on the plastic table between the chairs. His movements try for casual but fall just short of it. “I would… like to thank you, Dean.”

“For what?” Dean asks, but they both know. Of course they do.

Nevertheless, Cas pins Dean with a candor gaze, and Dean’s rendered immovable, stuck to the proverbial corkboard. For all the words the guy must spin on the daily, the ones he chooses, unhurried in the seconds left of the departing year, are, “For your kindness.”

“It ain’t no thing,” Dean tries to say, the last consonant catching, and if his throat is too dry, his tongue cottony, they’re conditions attributed to the weather, too.

Cas smiles.

The space between them dwindles—Cas so close now that Dean sucks in a shuddering breath of crisp Kansas air—and Dean feels as Cas’s hand, weighty and warm and afforded access by the gap in his unbuttoned coat, lands on his hip. Cas’s eyes flit downward, then, a question Dean answers by cupping a hand to the side of Cas’s face, perfectly shaped to Dean’s palm.

“Happy New Year, Cas.”

“Happy New Year, Dean.”

The chaste press of Cas’s lips on the corner of his mouth is the last thing to register in Dean’s brain before cheers erupt from inside the apartment. Like the invitation on Cas’s doorstep mere hours ago, Dean opens up his coat, and Cas accepts, allowing himself to be enveloped in Dean’s warmth. They linger close well past the cheering’s died down, the rumble of distant celebration their remaining company.

Turns out Dean got his fireworks after all.

**One year later**

[SMS from: me] hey cas. ready to clock out?

[SMS from: Cas] Hello, Dean. :) Yes, I’ll be finished soon. Finalizing one last thing. How are you doing?

[SMS from: me] uhh good. check outside

High up from the third-story window—the whole building a bland, corporate gray, nothing close to the pictures Dean’s seen of Google Headquarters in online articles—Cas’s head bobs into view. Dean grins and waves up at him, and somehow Cas must see it even past the foggy pane, because then like the sun he’s beaming that gummy grin of his own down at Dean.

A few minutes later, messenger bag in tow, Cas greets Dean with, “This is a surprise,” before shutting the creaky door of the Impala behind him. Snowflakes have begun to melt in his hair, and the arrow of his nose is red with cold. Dean desperately wants to kiss the warmth back into it but refrains.

After all, they’ve got an appointment.

Dean replies, “I picked you up last Thursday.” He throws Baby into gear, slings an arm over the back of her bench, and squints through the defrosted rear windshield. His fingertips have been itching to brush the nape of Cas’s neck all day, and at last their wish is granted. “And dropped you off yesterday.”

“But today is Tuesday.” From his designated spot in the passenger seat, Cas shivers for another reason, leaning into Dean’s touch. He’s trying very hard not to smile. “You always work Tuesdays.”

One of Dean’s shoulders jumps up. “What, can’t a guy ask for a no-nothin’ Tuesday off once in a while?”

“When it happens to be New Year’s Eve?” The suspicion in Cas’s tone has only escalated. “When the tips are best?”

Aiming a salacious wink at Cas, Dean says, “You would know, huh?”

* * *

The Impala trundles its way through their sleepy town of Christmas adornments and the occasional pedestrian straggling to get to their destination. Besides the bars prepping for the long evening ahead, only a few mom-and-pops are left open—the general store, the boutique with their fire sale. The last building on the block, though, modest and blinking a purple neon paw-print on its front, is Dean’s objective. He cuts the engine in front of the shelter and, practically vibrating, peeks over at Cas.

Cas is frowning.

Why is he frowning?

Panic constricting his throat, Dean blurts out, “Hey, uh, if you don’t wanna do this, we can call it a night, order that piz—”

“You’re allergic.” Cas’s expression has morphed into one of touched comprehension, his blue eyes puppy-dog wide and glued to the adoption special advertised next to the posted hours: _10 AM to 6 PM on New Year’s Eve_. Reluctantly those big eyes turn to Dean. “It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

Dean _pffts_. “Only mildly, and ‘sides—”

“’Only mildly’ still counts, Dean—”

“—and besides,” Dean reiterates before Cas can interrupt again, patting his right bicep with his left hand, “I’ve been gettin’ my shots for a while now.”

Up shoot Cas’s incredulous eyebrows. “You, Dean Winchester, known to eat a bacon cheeseburger for breakfast, have been making regular visits to the physician?”

“Yup.” He can’t hide his pride. “For six months.”

“Six months?” Cas gapes, two-parts horrified and one-part, grudgingly, impressed. “And without my knowing about it?”

“’Tis the season, man.”

Cas’s jaw clamps closed, his mouth sewn shut, and he returns to staring out the windshield.

In the ensuing quiet, Dean deflates, wondering if he’s gone wrong somewhere. Shit, maybe a year isn’t long enough to grieve the loss of a pet after all. He should’ve known, having witnessed Sam’s lingering heartbreak for himself. He’s an idiot, an overeager sap—

“I don’t know whether to kiss you or berate myself for being an unobservant companion,” Cas suddenly says, his tone drooping faster than a dying daffodil.

The tips of Dean’s ears feel very hot. “Uh, the first one?” Then, fully absorbing all that Cas has said and _how_ he’s said it, adding with great haste, “Look, you’re the most observant guy I know. If it weren’t for those Tuesday lunch breaks, you would’ve known.”

Dean scooches closer, the leather beneath him creaking, and dips his head so as to recapture Cas’s fretful eyes. A wordless exchange passes between them, green imploring blue. Eventually, Cas relents.

“Tuesdays, you say?” he asks, lips quirking.

Dean slowly grins. “Yeah, Tuesdays.”

* * *

“It no longer feels one species short here.”

Cas is busy reassembling the tower that’d been in storage for the better part of a year, old cat toys littering the carpet on which he works. Somehow, Dean’s the one who’s ended up on the couch, the newest, furry addition to their cozy twosome a gray puddle on the farthest end.

“Sam and his freakish intelligence are another species,” Dean jokes.

Cas shakes his head in good humor, a pink feather that’s been stuck in his hair for the better part of ten minutes shaking loose and floating down to the carpet below. Dean hadn’t had the heart to pluck it out himself.

“Sam isn’t here all the time.”

Dean scoffs. “True.”

“Definitely not as much as you are.”

“You tryin’ to say somethin’?”

“Not at all,” Cas says, sparing a lingering glance up at Dean. His hand lands on Dean’s right knee, gives it a significant squeeze, and suddenly _both_ of Dean’s knees feel very weak. “My home is your home.”

Dean stifles a sputter into the mug of eggnog he’d been neglecting in favor of helping Cas set things up for—

“So, uh, what’s her name, anyway?”

“Tardar Sauce.”

Dean just fucking blinks. “Like the condiment?”

Cas shakes his head, solemn. “In honor of the late Grumpy Cat.”

Dean gawps. “Well, that’s—that’s a mouthful.” Not to mention a hell of a leap from a common name like Hannah. “Even, what—Tardar Sauce 1.0—had a nickname, right?”

“That had just as many syllables, yes. But I do see your point.” Cas puts on the finishing touches, attaching the feathers that’ve deigned to remain a skimpy dangle on their string. Wistful, Cas regards them. “What do you suggest?”

Dean’s never been asked to name another living, breathing thing before, and it feels like a privilege that warrants a moment’s reflection; after all, he’d given that much and more for his car. Clicking his tongue, he reaches out to feel soft fur, to get a little inspiration.

The stroke between her ears engenders the cat to slink down from her throne—maybe to escape Dean’s calloused fingers, who knows, or else to rate Cas on his busywork. One fluid motion is all it takes, though, and soon after that, that regal tail of hers is swishing approvingly and she’s rubbing her chin on the tower, claiming it.

Upon such a spectacle, Dean says, “Grace.”

Cas makes a face, his back a perpendicular line against the front of the sofa. The way his shoulder bumps Dean’s thigh is a maddening distraction. “Grace?”

“Yeah,” Dean affirms for no rhyme or reason, smacking his lips after a painful, purposeful gulp of eggnog. Clearing his throat, he leans forward on his knees to look into Cas’s face. “Grace.”

Head tilted, first up at Dean and then at the cat as she returns to her liquid state up on her newly-assembled tower, Cas smiles, soft and fond.

“It suits her,” he decrees.

Grace’s clear blue eyes, half-mast, lazily blink at Cas and Dean together as if in her own approval.

* * *

“I haven’t thanked you yet.”

A slice of Rest in Pizza’s best pepperoni pie is halfway to Dean’s waiting mouth as he says, articulate as the day he was born, “W’huh?”

Like Dean hasn’t been busy stuffing his face, Cas stares at him in a way that makes Dean’s chest swell. Floating like stars in the blue of his eyes are the golds from the Christmas tree not five feet away from where they lounge on the sofa, and Dean is helpless in his own staring.

“For ending another year on a good note,” Cas answers plainly, as if those words alone couldn’t possibly inhibit Dean worse than any alcoholic drink to be had tonight, but they do.

A giddy grin threatens to split Dean’s face; he tries to dial it down, however, chews belatedly on the beginnings of his third slice of pizza. He swallows. _Play it cool._ “You think so, huh?”

“It seems to be a New Year’s theme of ours,” Cas continues, his voice an echo of the champagne gone from his flute glass. His eyes flicker to Dean’s mouth, and judging by the upturn of his own, it’s evident that Dean isn’t fooling anyone. “So allow me to show my appreciation.”

Last year’s thank-you springs to Dean’s mind. So many more kisses and—well, _other_ exchanges—have been made since then, but the first time will always be something special.

“Well,” Dean begins, setting his plate down beside Cas’s on the coffee table. He sinks back into the couch cushions, slips an arm behind Cas’s head. “It’s a lil’ late for a card. Nothin’ open on New Year’s Eve.”

Cas feigns a great, disappointed sigh. “I figured as much.” In favor of petting Grace, who’s taken to snoozing in the opposite corner again, he sways far from Dean’s reach. “Guess you’ll have to wait until tomorrow, then.”

“Uh, hold on—”

“You may like to pretend otherwise, Dean, but I know Hallmark is your favorite—so, really, it’s fine—”

“Cas—”

“I’ll brave the morning cold for _you_ —”

“ _Cas_.”

Second time’s the charm; Cas shuts up, but the playful purse of his lips gives him away. And this time, Dean can’t help it: he grins so hard his cheeks ache with it, and he laughs a belly laugh. For a long moment, they stare at one another, and Dean doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy to be sitting home on the couch on the cusp of the new year.

It tumbles out of him, and it’s just as Cas is opening his own mouth to speak, but Dean says, “Thank you.”

Cas’s head tips to one side. “I’m certain you’ve got it backwards.”

“Nah, not this time.” Blindly Dean reaches out for his plate of pizza and adds, before chomping off a considerable chunk, “Just beating you to the punch.”

Cas guffaws, and it’s—not the reaction Dean had been anticipating, and then—that’s when he realizes—something sweet is in his mouth. He’s trying not to puke just as Cas sidles up to him, a grumpy Grace in tow, and kisses Dean’s crinkled nose.

“Happy New Year, Dean.”

Somehow Dean doesn’t choke as he grumbles past the pineapple, “Happy New Year, Cas.”

**Twenty minutes later**

Lumbering in from the direction of the garage, great packages of multi-colored somethings stuffed under his arms, Sam announces, “Dude! Cas bought fireworks!”

Bewildered, Dean whips around to Cas, looking at him as if for the very first time. “You bought fireworks?”

Cas’s smile is smug. “I bought fireworks.”


End file.
